


Waterloo

by TheEmberGirl



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Historical Hetalia, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Mutual Pining, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Temporary Character Death, nothing too extreme though, or at least they think they are, repost from ffn, some violence, they're allies with benefits
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-22
Updated: 2016-07-22
Packaged: 2018-07-26 01:17:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7554553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheEmberGirl/pseuds/TheEmberGirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Battle of Waterloo was recalled by all those who were there to have been an extremely close battle.<br/>Repost from fanfiction.net</p>
            </blockquote>





	Waterloo

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt "It's History", for APH Rare Pair Week 2016

_18 June 1815, present day Belgium_

The battle had been raging on for hours, the stench of blood, sweat and gunpowder filling the air. At the centre of the clashing armies, England and France were locked in hand to hand combat. Their duel was as close as the battle around them, but England hadn't had the time to take notice of that, it did not matter if the Coalition won overall, his personal fight with France was a matter of pride.

They were closely matched, but England was tiring, whilst France was also beginning to slip, England had already been forced onto the defensive. France's sword found an opening, and England struggled to parry in time, using both arms to protect himself. As France withdrew his sword and returned with an onslaught of slashes, England ducked and blocked and attempted to regain the upper hand, mentally cursing Prussia all the while. _Where was that bastard?_ The last he'd heard of Prussia was that he'd fled with his army away from France's at Ligny the previous day. _Coward_ , his mind hissed as France rained down blows relentlessly, _you were supposed to be here_. A part of his mind reminded him he was in love with this very coward, he shook the thought off, gritting his teeth and refocusing his attention on the duel.

He was losing, each of the few attempts he was able to make at injuring France were clumsier than the last, and every hasty parry made him more conscious of the stinging cuts he'd already received. Any moment now his guard would slip and provide a opening to his throat, heart, or anywhere else that would lead to a mortal wound. A mistimed dodge saw France's weapon nick across his forehead and blood trickled into England's eyes, blurring his vision. France's blade cut past all of his defences and England lost his balance, falling to his knees in the mud. Looking up at France, he knew he had lost. His army may still prevail but his body will lie among the dead until he awakens again, and France will forever hold this victory over his head. France smiled triumphantly, his sword arcing back into the air, and England suppressed the instinct to get back up, to fight; as tired as he was, it would come to no avail, only drawing out what he knew was coming. He was determined to face his death with dignity, steadily watching the blade as it descended, at the final moments his resolve failed, his eyes squeezing shut as he awaited the bite of cold steel.

It never came.

Instead he heard the _clang_ of metal against metal. England opened his eyes, and Prussia stood in front of him, red eyes ablaze as France stumbled backwards from the force of his blow.

The Prussian army had arrived.

Prussia himself had fought his way across the battlefield to reach England, charging in first on horseback then continuing on foot after his horse was shot down beneath him. Now as he faced France wearing the blood on his uniform like and badge of pride, England wondered why he'd ever doubted him. It was clear now, the retreat had been a ploy, a way to double back and rejoin forces. Exhausted as he was, England still found himself spitefully amused watching France's face pale as he realised his mistake. They'd both doubted Prussia, but only one of them would pay the price. France was rapidly losing momentum to Prussia, already tired out from having battled England, and unnerved by Prussia's sudden appearance, he did not have much of a chance. Prussia was a skilled swordsman and the odds were stacked in his favour, he was more alert and the motivation of protecting England drove him on. _Even if he'll never feel the same way_ , a quickly silenced voice in his mind said.

England did not have to wait long; with a twist of his blade, Prussia sent France's sword flying, and moments later the fight was over. Prussia turned to England and held out his hand as France's body thudded into the mud behind him.

'It took you long enough,' England tried to keep the relief out of his voice as he brushed Prussia's hand aside, only to reach for it again when he realised he could not get up without support.

'I got here in the end, didn't I?' Prussia sounded quite pleased with himself.

England allowed him that smugness and leant fractionally onto his arm. They both surveyed the inert form of France at their feet, then the rest of the battlefield. The scene was similar to the one just witnessed; the Coalition were winning against the French.

'You're covered in blood,' England commented, exhaustion loosening his tongue.

'Most of it isn't mine,' Prussia spoke nonchalantly, keeping his surprise from his tone. 'And why are you worried about me? You the one who's still bleeding.'

He wiped some blood away from England's face, hoping he wasn't too obvious and telling himself that England was only concerned about his ally's ability to fight.

'I'm fine, you'll see,'

The wicked grin that flashed across England's face was enough to tell Prussia that no matter how badly England needed a medic at that moment, he would still be showing up at Prussia's tent that night.

* * *

_Present day, London_

Sometimes England wonders what would have happened the alliance he'd once made with Prussia had been more than just that. If they both let go of their pride and stubbornness and realised their feelings had been mutual, would things have turned out the same way? Would history have been kinder to them? But Prussia has made his peace with the past, and spending a quiet afternoon with him, England is content to do the same.

**Author's Note:**

> \- The setting of this fic is of course the famous Battle of Waterloo, the decisive battle that led to Napoleon's final defeat.
> 
> \- Ligny refers to the Battle of Ligny, which took place the day before Waterloo, where a part of the Prussian army retreated from the French in order to double back and regroup with the British forces
> 
> \- The alliance England is thinking of towards the end is the Anglo-Prussian Alliance of 1756, where the two nation made a treaty to protect each other's interests of empire, and also to fight France in the Seven Years War
> 
> \- My headcanon is that in the past England and Prussia thought of themselves as 'allies with benefits' and didn't know that the other also had romantic feelings for them


End file.
